‘Cille?’ He said the name like a caress.
‘No...’ she breathed. She wasn’t Cille. She shouldn’t be doing this.
‘No?’ he repeated faintly, bending his head so that his mouth hovered mere inches from hers, tantalisingly close, waiting for her to make the first move...
If she wanted him to stop, this was her chance.
She let her body overrule her mind, swaying forward as if her insides had turned to water and she could simply flow into his arms. Her hand fluttered to his chest and his lips seized instantly upon hers, covering her mouth with a touch that silenced every protest.
She let her lips mould against his, caught up in a wave of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm what was left of rational thought. He was tender—more tender than she’d imagined a warrior could be—exploring her mouth with a soft but unyielding pressure as his hands gathered her against him, tracing the curve of her spine, leaving a trail of fire.
All her resistance gave way and she surrendered to the feeling, letting her body lead as she closed what was left of the space between them, reaching up on her toes as she leaned against the hard lines of his body as if she couldn’t bear anything, not even air, to come between them. She felt his surprise, felt him stiffen and then respond as his arms coiled tighter around her waist, lifting her up so that her feet barely skimmed the floor, so tight that she could feel the solid muscles of his chest beneath his tunic.
A frisson of excitement raced through her body, heating her blood. All her senses seemed heightened...every nerve ending quivered. And she could feel a hot, tugging sensation deep inside, as if he were pulling her towards him by some invisible cord. It was an ache, a need, overwhelming and urgent... She ran her hands through his hair and moved her mouth against his, felt the pressure of his own lips increase, grow deeper, harder, as if they were no longer two but one body joined by a common desperate need.
They came apart finally and she arched her neck, gasping for breath as his mouth still moved hungrily over her skin, pressing kisses against her throat, her ears, into her hair. A low moan escaped her lips as for the first time in months she felt her mind start to shut down, as if her cares were floating away and there were only the two of them. If she could only hold on to this feeling, stay engulfed by his powerful arms, with the intoxicating feel of his lips on her skin, just lose herself in it and not think of the future...
‘Cille...’ he murmured, reclaiming her mouth.
She could feel his heartbeat, the hot pulse of his blood, but it wasn’t enough. What more was there?
‘Svend...?’ She made his name into a question. What next? she wanted to ask. What happens next?
She’d heard gossip, of course, and Cille had told her something of what passed between a man and a woman, but this was beyond her ken, beyond words, beyond anything that she’d ever imagined.
She didn’t know what her body wanted, just that it wanted, needed, demanded more. She’d never felt anything like this before, nothing remotely akin to this yearning. Her only experience was with Edmund.
Edmund. Her stomach plummeted.
‘Cille?’ Svend pulled his head back, sensing the change in her. ‘What is it?’
His breathing was as ragged as hers, but his face was full of concern, as if he truly cared. If she wanted him to he’d take her in his arms and kiss her again, kiss away the bitter memory of Edmund for ever.
She caught her breath, fighting the impulse. What was she doing? He was a man—just like Edmund. His kisses might feel pleasurable now, but soon he’d start pushing for more, would turn pleasure into pain. She didn’t want any man to touch her, let alone Svend. How much worse to let an enemy use and then betray her as Edmund had done? She shouldn’t be doing this.
No matter how much she wanted to.
She pushed frantically against his chest and he relaxed his hold at once, lowering her gently to the floor.
‘What’s the matter?’ He sounded confused.
Back on firm ground, her legs felt unsteady—as if the world beneath her had become suddenly unstable. She felt his arms tighten again and wrenched herself free, raising a hand to her swollen lips, seized by an irrational surge of anger. How dared he try to seduce her? Cille or not, he was supposed to be her escort—the man entrusted to take her to her new husband. What kind of a wanton did he take her for? Did he think Saxon women were so easily seduced?
‘Cille?’
He reached out a hand and she clenched her fists, resisting the urge to take it. She had to go back—back to the way things had been. Better to be enemies than this.
‘Do you make it a custom to seduce all your prisoners?’
She spat the words out as scathingly as possible, and saw something like hurt flash across his features, before it was gone—so quickly that she thought she must have imagined it. And then he was her captor again, the intimacy between them evaporating into thin air.
At the same moment she heard a commotion in the trees and a Norman soldier burst into the meadow, shouting out with relief at the sight of them.
‘The rebels have fled, sir!’
She was relieved to see it was the boy with the swollen eye.
Svend raised an arm in acknowledgement, then turned back to face her stonily. For a moment he seemed on the verge of saying something, before his expression altered abruptly.